why . . .
. . . would I want to write a mediocre story or novel, a shitty poem, when I could sit here and taste a sandwich, imagine the gratifying grind of a woman's thighs, choking on words from a well-crafted movie, licking fudge from a well-cleaned counter-top . . . why would I want to do anything apart from this?
Ah yes, the Human Condition.
But fuck that temper-tantrum, I won't give this ego a ride, I won't let it in with the same sort of power trip I see on a daily basis. I'll take the low road, the winding path filled with simple pleasures. I'll watch you all from below, tipping my hat when you fall, giving you a hand up just to feel the cold from your finger's tip as you claw deeper into your grave . . .
\you aren't flying you are sinking in a delusional lust for something higher up deeper down in the dirt . . .
\up, down, it makes no difference to the blind.
I'll just sit and walk, take a break when I need to, and I'll keep repeating under my breath as you beat me with your words of order:
"Nothing is true, everything is permitted."
I'm only permitting this, you don't resonate a syllable of truth.